


Epiphany

by plingo_kat



Series: Affairs [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Biting, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4644723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The insight hits him like a taser to the torso, fifty thousand volts straight through his skin: Illya is <em>afraid</em>. Well, no, that’s not quite right. Illya is uncertain, and he doesn’t like to act unless he knows what he’s doing. Suddenly the stop-start with Gaby makes sense, the fumbles and flinches and eventual resignation that nothing would happen. Illya hates incompetence, hates it most in himself, and will never move to expose a weakness.</p><p>“Stand up,” Napoleon says again, and this time there’s a hint of a tremble in it. “And come here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epiphany

It's not that Illya isn’t interested, Napoleon thinks, drawing a finger through the condensation left by his glass on the tabletop. The man just has a terminal inability to act on his desires. Hell, just look at that mess with Gaby – by the end he was tempted to lock them together in the bathroom and be done with it.

He sneaks a glance at his companion from under his lashes. Illya, of course, notices.

“What?” he snaps. Napoleon sighs.

Illlya looks down and scowls. He has a bottle of antiseptic out, along with a clean rag and light bandages, ready to tend to the shallow abrasions that run from his knuckles to his elbows. Their latest mission went about as smoothly as they ever did, which was not very. They’ve stopped trying to kill each other though, and Napoleon is working on his partner’s obsession with bugging him. He fingers the radio transmitter in his pocket.

It’s a work in progress.

“Here, let me.” Napoleon snatches the rag off the table, ignores Illya’s glare, and perches himself on the edge near where Illya sits. “Give me your hand.”

“I do not need help,” Illya says, but doesn’t resist when Napoleon slides his fingers under his palm and lifts. “Do not even try to steal my watch.”

Napoleon places his hand over his heart, rag dangling like a particularly ratty handkerchief. “Would I do that, Peril?”

Illya’s brows lower in a glare, fingers twitching a little in Napoleon’s hold. He gets down to business before Illya can deck him: wets the rag, shifts his grip to Illya’s wrist, and starts dabbing at the wounds. The man doesn’t even have the decency to hiss at the sting.

It takes ten minutes to get Illya cleaned up, and after Napoleon throws the rag onto the table and stands up in a stretch, back arched and neck bared. When he looks back down Illya’s lips are slightly parted, just a little too slow to avert his eyes. Napoleon’s heart gives a distressing lurch; he can feel the thud of it somewhere deep in his stomach.

“Stand up,” he says, half-startled by his own voice, by the low, wanting rasp of it, all his cards laid out on the table for anybody to see. “Come here.”

“Solo,” Illya says. Then, “Napoleon.”

He doesn’t move. The corners of his mouth are turned down but his eyes are wide with something like uncertainty, something like yearning, and his hands – well. They’re lying limp and open on his knees. Accepting.

The insight hits him like a taser to the torso, fifty thousand volts straight through his skin: Illya is _afraid_. Well, no, that’s not quite right. Illya is uncertain, and he doesn’t like to act unless he knows what he’s doing. Suddenly the stop-start with Gaby makes sense, the fumbles and flinches and eventual resignation that nothing would happen. Illya hates incompetence, hates it most in himself, and will never move to expose a weakness.

“Stand up,” Napoleon says again, and this time there’s a hint of a tremble in it. “And come here.”

Illya’s body uncoils like the drawing of a knife, effortless and smooth. Napoleon raises his chin to keep their eyes locked as the other man moves closer and very carefully keeps his breathing controlled. Just when their bodies are about to touch, just when Napoleon can feel Illya’s exhales on the skin of his face – Illya stops.

“I am here.” Illya’s voice is a hoarse rumble, nearly low enough to be a whisper. Napoleon lets his eyes half-lid, lets them flick to watch Illya’s mouth. Illya inhales sharply. “Now what?”

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” Napoleon murmurs. “Push me back.”

He goes easy, the edge of the table digging into the back of his thighs before he moves up to sit. Illya’s hands are hot through the cotton of his shirt as he spreads his knees.

“Reach around,” Napoleon says. “Hold my wrists behind me.”

Illya’s pupils dilate, black eating up the melting blue of his irises. Christ. Napoleon’s shirt stretches down over his shoulders as Illya runs his hand down his arms, wide palms and long fingers, encircling his wrists and forcing them behind him. Illya’s hands are big enough to hold him one-handed, back arched and elbows out, their chests almost touching. It’s awkward and a little bit painful and it makes lust blaze through Napoleon’s veins, makes him want to immolate himself in Illya’s mouth, under the press of his skin.

He pulls a little, just to feel the strength of Illya’s grip. Illya grits his teeth and clenches his hand hard enough for Napoleon’s wrists to protest, hard enough that there will be fingerprint bruises dotted on his skin tomorrow.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and does it again. Illya sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. “Fuck, Illya—“

Illya leans down and kisses him.

Napoleon opens for it, greedy, and Illya licks into his mouth like he’s starving, like they’re underwater and he wants to pull the air out of Napoleon’s lungs. Napoleons gives as good as he gets, turning it slow and sensual and _filthy_ , sucking on Illya’s tongue and scraping his teeth over his lip until the taste of copper blooms between them. Illya makes a shocked noise and pulls back, and when Napoleon opens his eyes his mouth is red and wet and used and he’s suddenly frantic to feel it on his skin.

“My shirt,” he says as Illya’s tongue darts out to taste the welling blood. “Take it off, take—“

Illya laughs as he fumbles one-handed at the buttons.

“You look good like this,” he says.

“I’d look better with your mouth on me,” Napoleon shoots back. Illya hums in agreement and the muscles of shoulders bunch just before he makes a fist and _pulls_ , buttons pinging free between them as he rips Napoleon’s shirt open.

“That was a Zegna, you know.”

“I will buy you new shirt,” Illya says, tugging the ruined Zegna down his arms before flattening his palm against his chest. “Tell me where you want my mouth.”

Napoleon feels those words like a touch to his cock. “On my shoulder, at the junction of my neck.”

Illya leans down. Napoleon watches the flex of his back as his shirt pulls tight over his shoulders, hooks an ankle around the back of his knee. Illya’s thighs are tensed, almost trembling. His mouth is as hot as Napoleon imagined, chaste for a moment before he opens and licks, tonguing at skin and sweat, sucking a blood-bruise that Napoleon will have to hide tomorrow. He groans.

“Collarbone,” he says, and stifles a whimper at the wet sound of Illya’s mouth as he releases his skin, the sudden lack of suction. Illya goes teeth first, scraping over the knob at the hollow of his throat and Napoleon lets his head fall back, his chest push forward further into Illya’s touch.

“Lower, just, just there, yes—” Illya fastens his teeth on the muscle of his pectoral, lightly, just enough to pinch. “Bite _harder_.”

He makes a breathless noise as Illya obeys, sharp pain lighting up his nerves. “Again,” he orders, pulling Illya’s hips in with his legs, caging him in close. “Again, again.”

Illya follows his direction with almost slavish eagerness, sucking on the flesh clamped between his teeth and leaving the skin wet and sensitive as he moves on to the next spot: over his nipple, the cap of his shoulder, the thin skin under the hinge of his jaw.

“Stop,” he says and Illya jerks back, breathing hard. Napoleon doesn’t let him get far, keeps him close with the clench of his thighs around his hips.

A flush has risen on Illya’s face to dust his cheekbones pretty pink; his dazed look makes him look drugged.

“Let my wrists go.”

Illya makes a hurt little noise as he obeys, and Jesus, Napoleon wants to hear it all the time, wants Illya to lay him down and whine for it as Napoleon tells him to bite hickeys onto his hipbones, wants to ride Illya until he begs, wants to suck his cock until he _cries_. He leans back onto his hands and hooks his feet around Illya’s knees, flexing them until he’s standing in the cradle of Napoleon’s legs, erection pressing onto the placket of Napoleon’s trousers. He smiles when Illya hisses and grinds in, all automatic reflex and want.

“Unbutton your shirt,” he purrs. “But leave it on.”

Those long fingers fumble a little at the buttons, but Illya manages to open his own shirt without damaging it. Napoleon will make him buy something _really expensive_ to make up for the one he ruined, he thinks.

Illya is all pale skin over hard muscle as his chest is revealed, better than Napoleon imagined; fine white scars flirt with his ribs and one pectoral, and there is a starburst patch of rough skin on his side, souvenir of a bullet. Napoleon has one just like it on his calf.

“Good,” Napoleon says, pleased, and Illya makes another bitten off noise. Napoleon rewards him with an arch of his neck, showing off the marks Illya made. Illya leans down again to run his nose over them, to breathe hotly over Napoleon’s skin.

“Undo your trousers,” Napoleon says, and the buzz of his throat rasps against Illya’s stubble. “Jerk yourself off.”

Illya’s hips jolt. He swears in Russian, a groan that’s almost a whimper. He moves as if to pull away, to give himself room as he undoes his belt buckle and the fastenings of his pants, but Napoleon keeps his legs locked.

“Stay,” he says, and grins at Illya’s shocked glance, the brief reddening of his ears. How a giant killer of a KGB agent can be so cute, he’ll never understand. “Come on, Peril.”

“Shut up,” Illya mutters but his hands are already at his belt. Each movement of his hands brushes against Napoleon’s erection, which is honestly becoming painful, but it’s _good_ and he allows Illya to see it, allows himself to gasp and roll his hips with each press of Illya’s knuckles against his cock.

“That’s right,” he says breathlessly as Illya pulls his cock out, fingers clenching tight around the base. Christ but he’s big, not particularly thick but long, flushed red and already wet at the tip. “Just like that.”

“You are not helping,” Illya grits out from behind clenched teeth. His hand moves in quick jerks, more urgency than rhythm, and Napoleon lets out a helpless laugh.

“C’mere,” he says, craning his head up. “Kiss me.”

It’s more a press of lips than anything else, all of Illya’s attention taken up by his hand on himself, the other gripping Napoleon’s thigh to pull them together tighter. Napoleon licks at his mouth, bites his way down Illya’s chin before a particularly hard press of Illya’s hand has him falling back with a gasp.

“Bite me again,” he orders, dropping to his elbows to splay himself out more. Illya ruts against him hard enough to make the table screech against the floor. He doesn’t bother to say anything, just buries his head in Napoleon’s throat and clamps his teeth down. Napoleon rides out the bright flash of pain and says, “Again. Lower. Lower.”

Somebody is making long, low sounds as Illya bites his way down Napoleon’s torso, and it takes Napoleon a moment before he realizes it’s him. He can’t stop though, doesn’t want to, not with how each noise makes Illya clamp down harder, how they make his hips stutter. He hikes his knee higher on Illya’s hip, practically lying on the table now, hands trapped awkwardly underneath him still tangled in his ruined shirt, and he wonders if the next time Illya will draw blood, if that will make Illya come—

Illya’s teeth dig into the sensitive skin above his ribs and he _shouts_ , writhes helplessly with the pain, and then Illya is rearing back and Napoleon brings his head up just in time to see the last tug and flick of his wrist before he comes in long spurts over Napoleon’s chest, his trousers, and his own fist, tendons standing out in his neck as he lets out one long whimpering moan. The startling hotness that stripes his skin is what sets Napoleon off. He comes in his shorts with harsh jerks of his hips and lays there through the aftershocks, choking a little as Illya cups him and squeezes.

“Fuck,” Napoleon says when he can think again. His legs have slipped free from around Illya’s waist, leaving him splayed out on the table, but Illya hasn’t moved. “Help me up, would you?”

Illya blinks twice, jerking his eyes up from where he was staring at the stripes of wetness on Napoleon’s skin.

“What?”

“Help me up.”

He blinks again before the words seem to penetrate, then flushes again. “Ah. Of course.” 

His soiled hand gets a contemplative look before he wipes it off on Napoleon’s trousers – he can’t bring himself to complain about that – before he reaches around to splay a palm between Napoleon’s shoulder blades.

Napoleon strips the shirt off as he rises, wrapping a hand around the back of Illya’s head and pulling him down for a kiss. He’s caught by the red marks around his wrists when they pull back, how they look against Illya’s skin, and the expression that Illya wears when he turns his head to see them too makes heat curl again in his belly.

“All right there, Peril?” He tries not to sound smug; it doesn’t work.

Illya runs hot eyes over his body, the spend cooling and running down his chest and abdomen, the growing stain across his trousers.

“Very,” he says, and rubs his come into Napoleon’s skin with his thumb. That answers that, Napoleon thinks. He won’t be thrashed in a bout of homosexual denial. In fact, Illya may be amenable to doing this again.

“Good,” Napoleon says, and licks his lips. “I need a shower. You coming?”

Illya’s hands tighten on Napoleon’s hips.

“After you, Cowboy,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Movie!Illya is absolutely a bottom, and nobody will convince me differently. This fic first came from the idea that Illya would pin Napoleon with his hands above his head, bite his way down his torso and look up _wrecked_ , pupils blown, and he'd groan after ever sharp sound Napoleon let out from the pleasure/pain of his mouth. And it would all be because _Napoleon told him to do it_. Aaand then I actually started writing, so it didn't quite turn out that way, but I feel like I got the gist of it.
> 
> Also if you want to talk more about these ridiculous spies, drop in on [my tumblr](pushthequorumbutton.tumblr.com)! OR plingokat @ twitter


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